


every day is a lullaby

by laurahughes



Category: Saturday Night Live, Saturday Night Live RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication Failure, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, lorne michaels don’t interact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26292715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurahughes/pseuds/laurahughes
Summary: It goes like this: it’s Monday night and they’re at a dive bar chosen on a whim, the only criterium being that it had to be as far from 30 Rock as they could manage to walk after getting out of office. The air around them smells of bourbon and pine wood and when Jost looks down and notices tiny grains of salt at the corner of Che’s mouth, it’s like a switch has suddenly been flicked inside his brain. He leans over and smashes their mouths together, his mind pleasantly quiet and helpless.
Relationships: Michael Che/Colin Jost
Comments: 18
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by 'happiness is a butterfly' by lana del rey. i recommend listening to it whilst reading this chapter

Jost doesn’t know why he kissed Che. Well, he does know, but only kind of. It’s the same answer that applies to basically all of his life choices: because he’s a fucking idiot. But why he decided to do it at that specific time is beyond him.

It goes like this: it’s Monday night and they’re at a dive bar chosen on a whim, the only criterium being that it had to be as far from 30 Rock as they could manage to walk after getting out of office. They sit in the back of the bar and they drink and go through the list of pitched sketches on Colin’s phone and then drink some more, some of their friends or just familiar faces joining in for a quick drink or a chat every once in a while.

Around 3am, the bar is far less crowded, the pitch list is long-forgotten, and their bodies are considerably closer than when they first sat down. But for the record, don’t get him wrong; it’s not exactly unusual. They’ve known each other for years, they spend more time with each other than with any other person. There’s a familiarity between them; a familiarity in the way Michael presses his thigh against Colin’s as he leans back comfortably in the chair, and how Colin moves to grab at the inside of his elbow when Che says something funny, and how their arms brush when they talk, gesticulating wildly and openly.

This night is just like any other; that makes all that’s about to follow even more incomprehensible to Colin.

Because he notices things. Despite it being late autumn, the bar is hot and Che must have lost his denim jacket at some point of the night. The pink hoodie he’s wearing (and Colin recognizes it as one of Che’s favorites) contrasts nicely with his dark skin under neon lights and, not for the first time, albeit absentmindedly, Colin lets his eyes wander and thinks about what’s underneath it. Che likes layers. Wears hoodies and jackets and sweatshirts (sometimes all three at once). And these goddamn layers of soft clothes make something tug at Colin’s chest.

They’ve been drinking watered down whiskey with coke until Colin said fuck it and ordered them both tequilla (followed by another round, and then another round, and then one more). The conversation comes to a halt and Colin feels something new linger in what should be a comfortable silence. The air around them smells of bourbon and pine wood and when Jost looks down and notices tiny grains of salt at the corner of Che’s mouth, it’s like a switch has suddenly been flicked inside his brain. He leans over and smashes their mouths together, his mind pleasantly quiet and helpless.

It’s weird. It’s not bad (how could it be bad?), it’s just weird. Jost’s drunk, too drunk to kiss someone properly, especially for the first time. Their teeth clink together and he clumsily tries to lick into Che’s mouth. Michael tastes faintly of lemon and salt and tequila and Colin absentmindedly wonders if his own mouth tastes the same.

He feels dizzy with it, left hand coming up to curl around Che’s neck on pure instinct. They’ve never been this close and that mere proximity is enough to make his head spin. It’s nothing but amazing and he feels braver and more open than ever despite the vague voice screaming in the back of his head that Che isn’t kissing him back. But he’s not pushing him back, either; it’s more like he’s letting him do this, wanting to know how far Colin is willing to take this. Jost doesn’t realize his other hand has moved to Che’s hip, toying with the hem of his hoodie and trying to push it up, until the other man reaches for his wrist. And, finally, Che pulls away and the spell is broken.

"Okay, I think that’s enough now, Jost.”

His face feels hot and it’s just now coming to him exactly what he’s done.

"Oh, fuck,” he says. And he runs the fuck out of that bar.

Oh, fuck, indeed.

The next day at the office is the epitome of awkward (yeah, no shit). It’s not that often that you drunkenly try to kiss your best friend (who is also drunk) and then have to show up and work with him the next day. And the next four days after that, too.

So Jost tries to hide in his office, even though he’d normally spend the morning getting ready with Che. And, just to be safe, he comes in half an hour before he’s supposed to be there. All this to make sure he won’t run into Che when arriving. ‘Cause Che is known to never have arrived early (to be fair, so is Jost). 

And, yeah, he knows he’s being childish and he’ll have to talk to Che eventually. But for now, it feels better to repress the fuck out of it. It’s just so hard to even imagine their eventual encounter; his useless brain is going over what he could say, how to explain it. Telling the truth isn’t an option, obviously (especially since Jost doesn’t know what the truth actually is, either). Maybe he could tell him he has brain cancer. Or a wife.

After pacing around the office for what feels like days, he finally has to accept the fact that he’ll have to face Che at the next meeting with Lorne and other execs. He could make up an excuse and leave (maybe for Puerto Rico, except that’s where Che’d expect he’d go), but in the long run, it’s not really worth it. Or very realistic.

So he goes to the meeting and tries not to think about Che yelling at him or telling him that he fucked up their friendship or, worst of all, not saying anything.

He feels so sick with shame and anxiety that he runs to the restroom and pukes, just barely making it to the sink. He washes his face and pointedly tries not to look at his reflection in the mirror. He knows exactly what he looks like, anyway; hungover, tired, sad, scared, fucked up. The whole package.

He gets to the meeting a few minutes late and murmurs apologies as he runs in, eyes scanning the room in rapid motions. His heart stops when he sees Che; he’s sitting in the corner, comfortably sprawled on the wide armchair he’s always favored. He’s wearing a bright blue pullover and a baseball cap and his face is unreadable. Well, not really. Either Jost is imagining it, or the corners of his mouth raise in a brief, mocking smile. There and gone in a flash.

Alright, so that’s how it’s gonna be. Guess Che’s planning on holding it against him. Fine. At least he knows where they're at.

"Hi, sorry I’m late,” Colin says, mostly directing it at Lorne, and takes a seat in the opposite corner of the room.

He goes out of his way avoiding looking at Che throughout the meeting. It’s pretty fucking hard ‘cause they’re used to exchanging opinions, contributing to each other’s points, arguing about what’s funny and what’s not. But this time around Colin doesn’t jump in to take over the flow of the conversation when Che’s having a hard time explaining his point of view or just getting bored. And Che doesn’t groan and tell him to shut up when Colin’s fighting for a sketch that’s clearly a lost cause.

If Lorne or anyone else notice, they don’t say anything. But they’re not stupid, either; Jost’s pretty sure they can sense something’s off, if the apprehensive and confused looks on their faces are anything to go by. And they seem pretty uncomfortable.

Well, join the fucking club, he thinks.

Once the meeting is over, Colin awkwardly scrambles out of his chair and all but legs it out of the office. But just before he can reach the corner, a hand comes to grasp at the hem of his shirt and pulls him back.

He almost trips. Then he turns around and sees Michael. And wishes he’d tripped because that’d be less embarrassing than having to face him.

"Oh hey Che, what’s up,” he says, trying to play it cool.

And fooling no one, clearly.

"Look, man.”

It’s never good when Che starts off a conversation that way.

"I get this is weird but…”

Colin cuts him off. “What’s weird?”

“You know. The  _ thing _ .”

“What thing?”

“You know what thing, don't play dumb, Jost.”

"Look, we don’t have to talk about it.”

Michael looks back at him, puzzled. "We don’t?”

"Yeah, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine but… I got drunk and, you know, stuff happens. Stuff happened. Whatever. Can we just… pretend it never happened?”

Michael is still staring, studying his face like there’s something he can’t figure out about this.

Colin takes a big breath. "Please?”

And Che’s back tightens and he pulls the hood up and over his face. "Yeah, whatever, man.”

He walks away and now Colin’s the one doing the staring. He feels sick in the stomach.

It feels like that Tuesday lasts a week and the week leading up to Saturday lasts a month.

They don’t speak to each other without other people in the room. They don’t hang around Che’s office and write Update bits on Friday, they don’t eat lunch and edit Bowen’s sketch together on Thursday. Colin decides to grow up and actually weighs in and offers some feedback on Che’s opinions in meetings, but that’s basically it.

And the thing is, that doesn’t make it any less awkward or weird or painful. And after every uncomfortable, bizarre interaction with Che around the studio, Colin locks himself inside his office or the restroom and hides his head in his face.

It’d be so, so much easier if kissing Che was about Colin being dumb and drunk. But, and Colin gets it now, can feel it in his chest and his stupid, clearly malfunctioning brain, it was more than a random moment of drunken shenanigans or confusion. Now that he’s willing to confront the facts, he realizes he’s probably wanted to kiss Che for years.

But it’s stupid, he thinks to himself, shielded in his office like some jackass rich businessman. It’s stupid because Che thinks of him as a friend and whatever his type is, Colin can bet it’s the opposite of a messy, repressed, pasty white, Catholic Harvard graduate who sported long hair on numerous occasions and who lives in Staten fucking Island.

There’s so many levels to why this wouldn’t work. Their incompatible personalities, sexual preferences, and different backgrounds aside, Colin can’t even fathom the idea of coming out to public as Che’s… boyfriend? Partner? Just thinking about it makes him dizzy.

Because as much as he’s finally willing to admit that that’s what he wants, he also knows everyone else would treat it as a joke. Michael included.

He hopes that’s what Michael thought the kiss was; a joke.

  
  


Before the first Update rehearsal, he cracks open a bottle of whiskey in his office and sips at it sternly until he loses track of time. He doesn’t even notice the knock at the door until Kate walks in.

"Jost, everyone’s looking for you…”

She stops in her tracks when she notices his face or maybe the half-filled glass of whiskey in his hand. Or both. "Are you okay?”

And relief washes all over him, because he’s so grateful someone’s finally asked him that.

"No,” he murmurs and feels his eyes water.

A warm but steady hand takes the drink from him and then there’s a beat and someone sits down next to him and envelopes him in a tight hug. Colin hides his face in the nook of Kate’s neck. He’s pretty pathetic, alright.

It’s minutes before he pulls away. "The rehearsal…”

"I already texted them saying you’re sick.”

Not for the first time in his life, he thanks god for Kate McKinnon.

He rubs at his face. "Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Kate takes his hand. "So if you don’t wanna talk about it, I’m happy to just cuddle you until you feel better. But if you need…”

"I kissed Che.”

He blurts it out without thinking, like a child admitting something bad in front of his parents for the first time, shame and fear filling his head. 

And he avoids Kate’s gaze because he’s scared she’ll see right through him. Because even though he just said that, there are still a lot of things left unsaid. And he’s not sure if he wants her to know all of them and he's not ready to face them himself.

"Oh… oh.” There’s a beat. "So you’re… Oh. And he…”

Colin lets out an amuzed chuckle, bitter with sarcasm. "He wasn’t into it. At all.”

His cheeks are wet now and one of Kate’s arms comes up to cradle his head and pull it towards her.

"I fucked up, Kate. I really, really fucked up.”

Kate doesn’t say anything for a long moment and just lets him cry it out, Colin’s head resting on her shoulder and definitely getting tears and sweat all over her hoodie.

But, as must always happen, at some point the tears stop flowing and Jost feels like his head has maybe stopped spinning. Or, well. At least the spinning has gotten milder.

"Look,” Kate says, apparently able to sense that he’s nready to listen. "I’ve had my fair share of crushes on straight girls. Like Gillian Anderson.”

That forces a weak but sincere laugh out of him. "Oh, that didn’t work out for you?”

"You better believe it did not. But it happens, you just have to move on. How’d he react when you kissed him?”

"I mean, he just kinda sat there for a minute and then pulled away and told me to stop. But he was drunk so he probably didn’t know what to do.”

Kate squints at him. "Why would you kiss someone who’s drunk?”

Jost throws his hands in the air because, Jesus Christ. "I was drunk too, Kate!”

"Mmmm. Okay. What’d he say about it?”

Colin looks away, now even more embarrassed. "Um, he didn’t really say anything. I just asked him to forget about it.”

"Are you kidding me? You kiss your friend when he’s drunk and you don’t even let him tell you how he feels about it?”

"Look, I already knew what he would…”

"Nope, that's not a thing. You just think you know what he’d say. You don’t get to kiss someone without their permission and then not even let them express their feelings. Maybe he’s angry. Maybe he’s confused. Maybe he’s worried for you. You don’t know until you let him say it. He gets to express all of that, and you owe it to him to hear it out.”

Jost closes his eyes and puts his head in his hands. His palms are sticky and smell of whiskey. The smell brings back the memories of that Monday night and for a moment Colin thinks he's going to puke again.

"Just talk to him.”

Colin nods at Kate and leans back against the sofa, lets her wrap her arms around him.

"Should I, by the way?”

"What?”

"Be worried about you.”

He looks at her and scans her face. She’s not wearing any makeup and despite the dark circles under her eyes and a pimple on her forehead, she looks fresh and composed.

He manages a weak albeit a sincere smile. "No. No, I’ll be fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took me a while, i was hired to do a very intense project on a short notice and that took most of my time and energy this week. but here we are!

The rest of the week passes in a blur. Jost throws himself into rewriting his own bits and offering to help out with all other sketches, which doesn’t happen that often (even though he is a head writer). He shows up to rehearsal and spends the entirety of Weekend Update avoiding looking at Che.

Their performance falls flat, he can tell. But, sue him, he needs time to work up to this.

He doesn’t want to waste time on Saturday (they have enough disasters on Saturdays as it is) so he promises himself to talk to Che next week. Or maybe he’ll call him on Sunday, ask him out for coffee (wait, or is that gonna sound weird?).

At first, he decides to forego the after party and head straight home after the show to wallow in pity. It’s mostly ‘cause he’s still avoiding Che, although he tries to convince himself it's because he’s better off not drinking for a little while. But after the show, as he’s congratulating the host, Colin sees Che zipping up his jacket and heading out, clearly not intending on going to the party. And in that moment, his stupid, stupid brain comes with what he thinks is the best idea ever:  _ I have to go to the after party _ .

He goes every week but he usually doesn’t drink too much. Sure, he gets buzzed, maybe even drunk, but it’s mostly about the social aspect. This time, he downs shot after shot like it’s water.

He’s a happy drunk, always has been. It helps him relax, blocks the noises inside his head, everything he doesn’t want to think about. Like Che. And Jost and Che. And how he fucked up the Jost and Che thing. And how fucking stupid he is.

You get the gist. 

After a while, he loses track of time and his surroundings. There’s just a pleasant buzz in the back of his head, loud music, somebody’s side pressed against him. 

He’s not sure when or how it happens, but he ends up at a table with Alex, Beck, Kent, and Anna. He’s leaning against Kent and he closes his eyes ‘cause the room just  _ won’t stop spinning _ . His head hurts, he can’t feel his face, his legs might as well be made out of jelly. There’s loud voices around him but he can’t really tell what they’re saying.

Someone presses something firm and cold against his cheek (a glass?) and it’s enough to make him feel so much better already. He opens his eyes.

The room is almost full so even though he has no idea what time it is, it's clearl that the party’s far from over. Most faces are vaguely familiar; he can tell he knows them, but can’t remember their names. Until he notices Che; he’s standing a few feet from his table, deep into a conversation with Chris and Heidi. He’s wearing a white hoodie so he must’ve changed after he went home; he’s frowning, which happens very often, but not like that.

It’s like Jost’s just emerged from deep waters; he feels completely awake all of a sudden.

“Che!” 

Heidi hides her face in her hands.

He waves at Che cheerfully. Che meets his gaze and his frown deepens, mixed with puzzlement. 

_ Oh _ . Maybe he didn’t notice him. Jost stands up, wobbly on his feet, spilling his drink (where’d it even come from?) all over the floor, and yells Michael’s name, waving even harder. He’s probably seconds from dislocating his shoulder when Beck pulls his arm down.  _ Rude _ .

“This ought to be good,” he hears Alex murmur. He’s pretty sure it’s Anna who slaps him on the back of his head, but he can’t be sure. 

‘Cause he’s focused on Che, slowly making his way across the room, pushing through the drunken crowd. Jost’s face grows warmer and his smile even wider. 

“Hey!” he greats him loudly the moment Che’s within the reach of his hand. 

His arms move of their own accord, trying to grab at Michael’s shoulders. It doesn’t happen. Did he miss? Or did Michael move out of his reach?

Meh. He must’ve missed.

“It’s so cool you’re here, look, the room’s stopped spinning!” 

He grins blissfully. Che stares at him like he’s just declared himself the leader of the free world. He looks away.

“Is he…” Che says, addressing Beck.

“Yep, drunk as fuck, yep.”

Michael pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, Jost.”

Colin tries to grab at Michael’s shoulders again and this time he ends up with one elbow propped against him. It’s not exactly what he had in mind, but, hey, he’ll take what he can get. And for some reason, it’s getting harder to keep steady. So, leaning against Che’s side is very much welcomed.

“Have you been here long? I didn’t see you. Did you take shots? Let’s do shots together, look, here…”

He reaches for the shot glass resting on their table. Before he can hand it to Michael, he crosses his arms against his chest. “I don’t want a fucking shot, Colin.”

Colin blinks. “Oh. Okay. Well…” 

He tips his head back to take a shot. He doesn’t feel anything and for a minute there, he thinks he might be having a stroke.

He opens his eyes.

“Oh. It’s empty?”

Alex is laughing from where he’s sat next to Kent, nursing a glass of whiskey. “I think that’s your cue, Jost.”

“What? No! Michael just got here!”

Che interrupts him. “Yeah, and I’m leaving. Come on, Jost, let's go.”

He tries to protest and whines about Che being a buzzkill. His body is warm where it’s pressed against his. Michael’s left hand is hovering over his back, almost touching the base of his neck, but not quite.

“I can take him home, I should probably get going, too,” offers Kent.

“I’m not going home!”

Che shakes his head. “It’s fine, I’ll do it.”

“Hold on now, maybe going home isn’t such a bad idea.”

Colin hears Alex let out a patronizing laugh at that. He doesn’t acknowledge it, gaze fixed at Che with child-like excitement. “I have so much alcohol at home. Have you ever had Scorpion Vodka?”

Che groans. “Shut up.”

He grabs Colin by the elbow still resting on his shoulder and pulls at it to drag him along towards the door with him. Jost waves cheerfully at the people remaining at his table, all of whom are currently hiding their faces in their hands or against other people, for some unknown reason.

He can’t remember much of their walk downstairs; he spends most of it babbling at Che, who pointedly ignores all of it. He lets go of his elbow inside the elevator and Colin staggers at his feet, unprepared for the sudden loss of Che’s support.

He ends up banging his head against the elevator wall. But he hardly feels any pain at that. “Oh, wow.”

Michael curses under his breath. “Okay, just let me…”

He grabs Colin’s arm and wraps it around his shoulder in one swift, firm movement. With his other arm, he pulls at Jost’s waist, hoisting him up and towards his side, taking on some of Colin’s weight. 

He immediately relaxes into the touch, lets his body rest against Che’s. He barely registers what’s happening around them when they get out of the elevator and Michael leads them outside. 

“I’m calling you an Uber,” he says when they step onto the pavement.

Colin shivers with cold; God, just ten minutes ago even his T-shirt felt oppressively too hot. And now he’s standing in his jacket, leaning closer against Che just to get warmer.

His ears are still throbbing from the ridiculously loud music at the party. He feels exhausted all of a sudden. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop onto Che’s shoulder.

This close, he can feel the warmth spreading from Che’s neck. He thinks about pulling his head up and nuzzling at it (his nose is getting cold too, okay?) but he can’t really find the strength to move now that he’s found such a comfortable position. 

Besides, flashes of memories stir at the back of his head, not enough to remember, but enough to remind him that this is a boundary he really, really shouldn’t close.

Still, it’s enough. He can smell Che’s cologne like this, the one he lies about not using. 

It smells nice. And familiar. He wants to tell Michael as much, but then he remembers.  _ Boundaries _ .

The ride is a quick one; Colin puts more space between them because, yeah, he’s slowly sobering up. And with that, he can feel his alcohol-subdued anxiety start to elevate again.

He doesn’t try to talk when Che walks him to his apartment, helps him open the door, and lets himself in. Colin squints at him.

“I, you don’t have to… I’m fine, really.”

“I’m not gonna babysit you, Jost,” and there’s a hint of a smile in his voice. “Just get your ass to bed and Imma go.” 

His throat is too tight all of a sudden and there’s hot waves pressing at his chest. Jesus. So he ends up shrugging and rushing to the bathroom to both get himself together and hide.

The moment the door closes behind him, he falls to the floor, back resting against the cold tiles. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ . Why did he have to go and stop drinking? Why did he let himself be walked out of the party? Why did it feel like the cold air and Che’s warm touch had alcohol evaporate from his bloodstream? Why did he let Che walk him home, why is he  _ so fucking dumb _ ?

His hands are shaking where they’re crossed against his chest and wrapped around his biceps. He closes his eyes, lets his head drop against the wall. He’s one stupid motherfucker, alright. And now Michael’s there, probably still pissed off about having to babysit him, and Jost’s gonna have to face him again in just a few minutes, traces of alcohol still pulsing through his veins and making his head buzz, and he’ll have to pretend like it’s all fine, like he can’t see the disgust in Che’s eyes, like he didn’t go ahead and try and– 

He takes a deep breath. Or at least tries to, ‘cause it still feels like something’s pressing at his chest from both sides. It takes him a minute, but finally his breathing (mostly) returns to normal and he pushes himself off the floor.

He washes his face in the sink, doesn’t take the time to inspect his face in the mirror. He forces himself to brush his teeth; he knows he’ll feel like shit next morning if he doesn’t.

When he steps out of the bathroom, changed into the spare clothes he keeps there, he finds Michael sitting comfortably on his couch. It’s almost obscene how domestic he looks; how Che seems to fit right there, one arm propped against the back of the couch, a glass of water in his hand. He’s on his phone, probably scrolling through Twitter, but puts it away and turns when he hears Colin approaching him.

He looks him up and down. “You look better,” he offers.

That forces a bitter laugh out of him. “That’s one way to call it.”

He knows his hair is both greasy and damp from sweat, that there are dark circles under his eyes, that he still stinks of alcohol.

There’s a bit. And it feels so fucking awkward. He wants to say something, wants to say  _ a lot _ , but he has no fucking idea where to begin.

Finally, he sighs and sits on the couch, making sure to leave plenty of space between them.

“Look, I–” he starts. Then shuts his mouth. When he opens it again, no sound comes out.

This time he grin on Michael’s face is obvious. “Just go to bed, man.”

“No, look, listen, I have to say this,” he looks away, pointedly staring at the wall behind Michael’s shoulders. ‘Cause he really can’t do this with Che’s eyes glaring daggers into him.

“I’m sorry about… the thing.”

“The thing,” Michael repeats, dry and bemused.

“Well… You know what I’m talking about.”

Che shakes his head.

“ _ The thing _ ,” he repeats again, mocking. “So you can do it but you can’t say it?”

Christ. This is torture, this is goddamn torture. Maybe Che knows, maybe it’s his way of punishing him. Well, that’s fair. He knows he deserves worse.

He flushes. “I’m sorry that I tried to kiss you when I was drunk.”

A faint, surprised sound escapes Michael’s lips and it’s enough to make Colin look at him again. 

Michael’s face tends to be unreadable; Colin’s heard many people refer to it as a “resting bitch face”. And he’s gotten used to it after so many years, has learned that what Che feels isn’t always reflected in his face. Most of the time, he only looks bored.

Colin inspects his face now, inch by inch. His eyebrows are drawn low and close together, creating a wrinkle that Colin absently thinks about touching and smoothing. His lips are pressed together, but not in disapproval; more like… confusion, maybe?

“Look, man, I know that was a dumb thing to do and I feel like shit about it, and it’s cool if you don’t wanna talk about it, or if you don’t wanna be friends anymore, or anything. I just, fuck. You’re so, you’re a good friend and I don’t wanna… If I can do something to make up for being a dick, then… Tell me, ‘cause I just don’t know what to… Shit, I’m just so sorry, Michael.”

The words almost force themselves out of his mouth, the truth both sweet and sour on his tongue. It feels like vomiting poison; it hurts and it’s terrible, but once it’s out, he feels like an invisible weight has been taken off his chest. It’s suddenly easier to breathe.

The look on Che’s face doesn’t change dramatically, but it seems a bit more relaxed, muscles no longer drawn together so tightly.

“Why did you do it?”

Fuck. Fuck. That’s the question he’s been dreading since the beginning. He could answer any of Michael’s questions,  _ anything at all _ , but this…

He considers lying, telling him that it was his way of getting over his ex, that he just made a dumb mistake, that he wanted to experiment, that he was so drunk and out of his mind that he didn’t know what he was doing.

But he knows that he fucked up  _ so bad _ . And Michael deserves to hear the truth, even if he’s gonna hate him for it.

He takes a big breath. “Because I wanted to. I guess I’ve wanted this for a long time, I just… didn’t get it until that night.”

Michael blinks. “Wanted…”

He makes an awkward gesture, pointing from Michael to himself and back. 

“ _ That _ . You and me. Like, dating. And sex stuff.”

Heat rushes to his cheeks. “I mean… you know what I mean. And I get it, I know you’re not… and you wouldn’t… but, anyway.”

Michael sits unusually still and quiet for a tense moment. His glare switches from Colin and he looks around the apartment, like he’s searching for something. Suddenly, Colin can’t take it anymore. He scrambles to his feet. 

“I, I’d better go to bed. Um, you can help yourself to stuff, you can crash on the couch if you want. But you don’t have to! Just, close the door if you leave. So, yeah, thanks for getting me home. Um, good night.”

And he sprints to his bedroom before Che can so much as open his mouth.

He puts earplugs in ‘cause he knows any sounds coming from the other room will keep him awake all night, wondering if Michael’s already left or if he’s taking a shower in his bathroom, or watching the TV, or shifting on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. 

Maybe he thinks too much about Michael. How did he just now realize that he’s in love with the guy? It’s not really a no-homo thing, spending so much time thinking about what your bro is doing when you’re away.

He pulls the covers over his body, turns to his side, and tries not to ignore the terrible fear forcing his way into his throat.

The earplugs must’ve fallen out of his ears at some point of the night, ‘cause he wakes a couple of times and hears footsteps from the other room, and then the sound of somebody’s voice, talking very quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise the next (and final) chapter is gonna be way less angsty. and there's gonna be kissing and overall a happy end so yay
> 
> like i said, this is going to be a three-chapter story but i might drop some one-offs every once in a while (set in the same universe). because i love these two
> 
> please comment and let me know what you think! it really means a lot to me!! 
> 
> AGAIN, lorne michaels don't interact


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took me so long! i quit my job mid-September and went through the hell of job hunting and now getting used to a new job. i hope this chapter will make the wait worth it though! it was definitely my favorite chapter to write.

He wakes up with his head pounding and a terrible taste in his mouth after what feels like maybe an hour. The only thought racing through his mind is "fuck, fuck, fuck". He groans and rolls over, pushing his face into the pillow. Except the pillow is soaked with sweat and smells like shit (meaning, it smells like him). So he groans again, wills his arms to move, and somehow manages to throw the pillow onto the floor. 

See, sometimes people wake up after drinking too much and it takes them hours to remember what happened when they were wasted. Not this time, though; because the minute he woke up, Jost’s mind was filled with memories of all the terrible, embarrassing things he wishes he hadn't done last night.

Well, there it is. At least it’s all out in the open now. They don’t have to dance around it anymore; Che can be openly disgusted and angry with him, and Jost will just have to take it (‘cause he knows he deserves it) until this season is over, and then he’ll quit and produce sitcoms or do stand up until he’s old and graying and gross and Che’s still funny and hot as fuck.

There’s some kind of sick satisfaction to having everything out there in the open, to letting Che hate him. He can finally let go of those sick fantasies that apparently he’s been repressing for years. And now he won’t be able to bring himself to ogle Michael or find excuses to touch him, ‘cause from now on it’s gonna be borderline creepy. Because Michael knows exactly  _ why  _ he does it, and since Jost now knows for sure that Michael doesn’t want it, well. It’d just feel too creepy. Bordering on illegal.

Oh well. What was he expecting was gonna happen, anyway?

Now that he’s fully conscious, he can’t really take lying in bed anymore. He stinks, his morning breath is terrible, his hair is dirty and sweaty, and he generally feels like shit. Also, if he stays here doing nothing, his anxiety is probably gonna catch up with him.

He gets up without falling down, but just barely. He grabs clean sweatpants and a T-shirt and heads for the bathroom. He passes through his living room, intending to walk straight into the bathroom. But then he notices a vague, human-sized shape sprawled across his couch, blurry without his contacts. He blinks, thinking that he might still be drunk.

But, nope. That’s a blurry Michael Che right there, all right.

Colin squints at him and has to walk closer until he can actually see more than a bunch of shapes. He approaches the couch and Che’s eyes suddenly open.

Jesus Christ.

He jumps back and almost falls down, again. 

“Christ. You scared me,” he murmurs, clutching his hand to his chest. 

He might be having a heart attack. He’s not sure.

Michael lets out a small, surprised laugh. His voice is pleasently raspy in the morning. “Yeah? You’re the one who was trying to creep on a sleeping guy.”

“I wasn’t creeping on you! I just… wasn’t expecting you to be there and I can’t see without my contacts, so I had to… make sure it was you.”

Che raises an eyebrow. “How often  _ do  _ you wake up to random people sleeping on your couch, Jost?”

He can’t really think of a clever reply for this, and he doesn’t even try to, half-bent in laughter at Che’s ridiculousness. Michael joins in, his laugh throaty and rough from sleep.

It’s a pleasant couple of moments, and he doesn’t have to think, forgets about most everything that’s happened. But, of course, eventually he comes back to. And once the laugh’s dried out, the beat of silence between them is awkward.

Well, to him, at least.

Che doesn’t take his eyes off him even as he stretches his arms above his head. The bedsheets slid halfway off the bed. Colin doesn’t know what the fuck to make of all this.

Because shouldn’t Che, like, not be here? A guy weirded out by his best friend kissing him should be doing anything but spending the night sleeping on said guy’s couch. And then teasing him in the morning. And making what sounds like second rate innuendos.

Colin sighs and opens his mouth to say something serious and dumb. 

Che cuts him off immediately. “Jesus, don’t make that face.”

He frowns.

“I’m not making a face," he says, making a face.

“Yes, you are. Come on, don’t be weird, just… sit down, okay?”

Michael sits up and scooches over, pats the spot next to him on the couch. Colin’s heart skips a beat and he awkwardly walks over to the front of the couch, feeling as awkward and out of place as one can feel in their own apartment. He sits down next to Michael, leaving plenty of space between them. Michael rolls his eyes.

Maybe. Maybe he does. Or maybe Jost is just oversensitive.

“So, this is awkward,” he says, ‘cause he’s a dumbass, alright. 

“Shut up.”

“It is. You know it is.”

“Then quit making it even more awkward, Jost.”

“I’m just trying to-”

“Cool if I kiss you?”

Colin blinks. And then he blinks again.

Michael’s face doesn’t look any different than it did before he asked that question. No signs of mockery, sarcasm, pity, or annoyance. And yet. It doesn’t make  _ any fucking sense _ . 

Did he get that right?

“Um, what?”

“You heard me. It’s a simple question. Yes or no.”

He blinks. His brain zeroes out. “I… yes?”

And, just like that, Che’s lips are on his own.

They’re chapped and dry. Colin can’t remember much of the kiss (if it can even be called a  _ kiss _ ) at the bar, so he can’t really remember how Che’s lips felt at the time. But now they’re dry and it feels weird and kind of uncomfortable, until Colin’s tongue brushes against Che’s lips, more instinct than thought. And,  _ oh shit,  _ he realizes that he’s now kissing him back.

With that, he also realizes Che’s hand has come up to cradle his head, tilting it so the angle is better, deeper, and less awkward, long fingers spread along Colin’s jaw. The places where their skin is touching feel hot, like there’s a rash spreading across them. Which is a very weird thought. And Colin doesn’t want to think about it any longer, so, fuck it, he decides to just take whatever he can get, make the most of this bizarre, surreal moment, and he grabs at Michael’s shirt.

He licks into Michael’s mouth and his lips fall open  _ just like that _ . He can feel the overwhelming smell of the worn out blanket Michael slept under, mixed with Michael’s smell, Michael’s smell mixed with Colin’s own. Che’s hands tighten in his hair and, holy shit, that feels better than he'd ever imagine (not that he'd ever imagine this). A shiver runs down Colin's spine, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck and sending a pulsating jolt down between his legs. It’s good, it’s so fucking good, better than inside that bar, better than he’s ever had after less than five minutes of a make out session. And before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s moving across the seat, not quite on top of Che, but closer, gently pressing him into the couch.

And all of a sudden, he realizes what he’s doing and he flinches away from Michael as if burned.

Jesus Christ. He just did it again. 

He stares at him, eyes wide and mouth open (and wet and slightly bruised, thanks for that,  _ Che _ ). 

“Um, what just happened?” is the only thing that comes out of his mouth.

Che is looking at him, studying him idly but with amusement. 

“Quit acting like such a dumbass. We made out, it was great, and we should probably get back to it.”

Michael's arm moves to tug at him and, what the fuck. Jost springs to his feet and pulls at his hair, trying his best not to be distracted by the memory of the feel of Michael’s hand in it just moments ago.

His brain is overheating, is the thing. And nothing really makes sense about this whole situation.

“Okay, look, man, you need to… explain this.”

“This?”

“Any of this! Are you doing this to mess with me? Are you making fun of me? What the fuck is happening, Che?”

His face feels hot and the room is spinning again and he thinks he might be on the verge of having yet another panic attack. Because he’s setting up some kind of a record, apparently. 

He doesn’t understand any of this. How can a guy reject him and then ignore him, act like he hates him, and then be kissing him the next day like nothing’s wrong? The only reasonable explanation must be that this is Che’s way of getting back at him; by mocking him, giving him hope, and then hanging Jost out to dry, blue-balled and sexually frustrated and dumb.

Which, to be fair, he does to himself fairly often.

Before he can voice any of this, Che is besides him, standing close but not  _ too  _ close, and grabbing at Jost’s shoulder. Colin looks down.

“Calm down, Jost, okay? I’m not making fun of you or whatever.”

He blinks. “I- really?”

Che sighs. “Yeah. You would’ve known if I was making fun of you. It’d be much funnier than that.”

That gets a faint laugh out of him and, out of sheer instinct, he looks up and meets Michael’s gaze. His eyes are wrinkled from a smile, honest and warm. Colin lets himself lean into his touch.

“Okay. Okay, fine. So. Explain?”

He leans against the bookshelf, his body slipping away from Che’s touch, but Che follows it easily, adjusts his grip, angles himself so that he’s a warm presence against Jost, but not boxing him in.

And though he seems pleased enough to keep himself almost pressed against Colin, his face twists in a tense expression. One Jost remembers from the countless interviews they’ve had to suffer through together; that’s the face Michael makes when he’d rather not talk about something.

Which is odd, since just a few minutes ago it was Michael trying to make Jost talk. Well, well, well, how the turn tables. Jost smirks and angles his face upwards. “Well?”

Michael groans and his head drops back. “Do we have to do this?”

_ Oh _ . Okay, wait. Maybe Jost isn’t that much of an idiot. Maybe he did get some of this right.

Because Michael is clearly uncomfortable and doesn’t want to talk about it, but at the same time he’s leaning against Colin, pliant and at ease, one hand just inches away from Colin’s hip. And, unlike Jost, Che doesn't talk a lot in general, just doesn't like to. He prefers to act on it.

All of a sudden, blood rushes to Jost's brain, and then down, down, down, until it's difficult to think and he wants nothing more than to lean forward, close the distance between them, and press their bodies together. And now he realizes that this is exactly what Michael wants, too; and Colin feels drunk off the realization.

Feeling bold, he takes a step forward. They’re so close now that he can see watch Michael’s breath hitch in his throat; how his lips open just a tiny bit. 

Slowly, oh-so-slowly, he raises his hand and presses it to Michael’s cheek. His fingers spread across his face, thumbing the edge of his lip, soft and smooth. These lips were kissing him just mere minutes ago, he thinks, and shudders both with pride and anticipation. Michael closes his eyes at the gesture, leaning into the touch. “Come on. You can say it.”

When Michael groans again, it’s low in his throat, totally different from his groan of frustration at spending more time with the press. “Shut up and kiss me, Jost.”

It’s more of an order than a suggestion, and, really, Colin has no choice but to obey. 

He pushes himself off the bookshelf and shoves his body at Michael in a single motion, his arms coming up to grab at him, one hand at the back of his head, the other shamelessly palming at the other man’s shoulder. But it’s okay because Michael’s right there with him, already matching his pace, sucking at Colin’s lip the moment their faces are smashed together. 

It’s better than the first time and it’s better than the second time. Because this time, Colin actually knows what’s happening, knows that Che wants this, too. And even thoug he knows he's being greedy, Che keeps up with his demanding touches, giving back just as much, twisting his hands in Colin’s hair when Jost sucks at his lower lip, nipping at his jaw when Colin pulls away to breathe, lets himself be manhandled and pushed against the wall, head lowered to reach Colin’s at a more comfortable angle.

It’s pure heat, slick mouths moving against one another, Colin’s fingers digging into Che’s arms, covered with a layer of sweat. Che makes a noise low in his throat when Colin’s teeth graze his lips, and then Colin’s gone, working his thigh between the other man’s legs, finding him half-hard already. He pulls back and groans at the feeling of it.

“Fuck, Che,” he whispers into Che’s neck, mouthing at it absently while his thigh rubs up against Che’s length lazily.

Che’s hand tightens around his shoulder, egging him on. “C’mon, Jost…” 

And though it’s barely two words, Che’s noises and fast, jerky movements are enough of an answer to Colin’s silent question.

He works a hand between them and pushes Michael’s sweatpants along with underwear down the man’s thighs. He closes his hand around Che’s length immediately and moves it experimentally. The skin’s too dry at the shaft, making the movement uncomfortable, so he moves up, palming at the head and gathering the liquid that’s already leaking from the tip, smoothing it up and down the length. Che groans at the first touch to the crown and surges forward, plunging his tongue into Colin’s mouth, as if urging him on.

Colin’s too impatient to take his time; besides, he’s pretty sure he’ll get to do it again, and the realization causes his own dick to twitch impatiently in his pants. He quickens his movements, pumping Che’s shaft, feeling the thickness of it, wondering how it’d taste on his tongue. His left hand leaves Michael’s head and he presses the heel of his palm into his crotch, trying to find any friction. 

It’s messy; there’s no much rhythm to their movements, Michael’s hips jerking and thrusting into Colin’s palm, Jost trying to match his pace whilst pressing his hand to his own dick, impatient for his own relief. Che’s head drops back against the wall; he’s not even all the way there yet, but he already looks fucked out and gorgeous, and Colin thinks about all the other things they’ll get to do later, the things he’ll get to do to him…

Colin doesn’t stop moving his hand when Michael comes all over his own shirt. When the aftershocks are over, Colin slumps against Michael, boxing him against the wall, and shamelessly pushes his hand into his own pants, greedily grabbing at his dick and pumping it fast and rough. 

And just when he thinks he can’t take any more, that this is as good as it gets, Che’s hand wraps around his own, speeds up his movements, and _ twists _ , once, then again, and Jost is coming in his pants like a goddamn teenager, sticky and disgusting, and it could not be any better.

It takes him a while to come down. But the second he’s coming to, he groans, his limbs loose as cotton. He dares to open his eyes.

Michael’s look at him absently; not distracted, just loose and easy,  _ comfortable _ . One of Colin feels warm and sated and thinks about the warm bed waiting in his bedroom. 

Before he can say anything, Michael’s hand nudges against his own and he leans down, nosing at Colin’s neck.

“Come on, Jost, let’s go to bed. I need a nap.”

Colin flashes a warm smile as Michael interlinks their fingers. He lets himself be dragged to his own bedroom.

“Did I tire you out that much?”

Che stops just before they reach the door. He looks him up and down, something heavy and amused in his eyes. “I’m sure you could do much better.”

He pulls him inside and Colin allows himself to fall onto the soft mattress, his legs tangled with Michael’s and with the warm sheets. His arm moves to wrap around Michael’s middle, and his eyes close of their own accord.

Michael, god bless him, was right. Sometimes they don’t have to talk about stuff. And they do communicate better this way: warm muscles, soft bodies, heavy limbs, sweet breaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so folks, that's it! as far as this particular story is concerned, that is. i had so much fun with this and i really hope that you enjoyed it too.
> 
> i am definitely not done writing about these two. you can expect more stories set in this particular universe as well as some new universes. and i have some great smut in mind (i didn't want to make this chapter too smutty since it started out almost G rated)
> 
> if anyone would like to beta my future works about chost (is that what we're calling them?), i would be so grateful!! 
> 
> thank you all for your very kind comments and kudos. you guys are the best. love you!!!
> 
> PS the new weekend update had some very inspiring moments

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably going to be a 3 chapter story, unless i decide to add something else
> 
> i really hope you like it! let me know what you think!
> 
> lorne michaels don't kill me please


End file.
